


Fixing Canon

by Madmarchhare3



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean hates glitter, Dean hates pink, How the boys really avoid the feds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madmarchhare3/pseuds/Madmarchhare3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, after watching SPN 10x22, The Prisoner, this question came up (again) of how the ever loving fuck has Sam and Dean managed to avoid getting over by police in every episode? I answered myself and this is the result from my traumatized brain. Set somewhere in season 8 after the MoL bunker but before the trials. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing Canon

The time a man spends working on his car is sacred. It is a time to reflect and evaluate parts needing replacement. A time for cleansing the dirt and grime that accumulates from life on the road. To tighten bolts, lube joints and top off fluids. It is a blending of blood and motor oil. An infusion of spirit and exhaust fumes. 

Dean Winchester truly cherishes time with his dad’s ’67 Chevy Impala. Whenever the world gave him a problem too big to solve, she provided him with things he could wrap his hands around and fix. She was family, always there, always faithful. The sight of her sharp angles and graceful curves never failed to draw a smile from Deans lips. She kept him and his little brother Sam safe and warm in the embrace of her leather seats; soothed their weary souls with the purr of her engine. She was their home, no matter where they were. 

She’s also the only car that can claim to have saved the world.

If the Man of Letters bunker turned out to be a burned out, defunct hole in the ground with a working garage, Dean would still have counted that as a win for the Winchester Family. Sam could blissfully spend days cataloging dusty, old books in the library or sorting out junk drawers full of ancient crap. Just give Dean his tools, his tunes, and his Baby, and he’d be happy as a clam. In fact, that’s exactly what Dean had in mind as he was heading to the garage. Just some nice quality time with his Baby.

Upon entering the garage Dean immediately sensed something was wrong. Over top of the usual smells of grease and gasoline was the cloying, sweet-sour stench of something that belonged in a witches lair. What Dean found made him stop dead in his tracks. His face turned pale as his blood turned to ice water in his veins. His body was frozen in place, and he fought to keep from getting sick as he stared at the horror of what stood before him.

Almost every square inch of the Impala’s glossy, black enamel was covered in a swirling array of enochian script. 

It was in hot pink. 

And glittery.

Dean forced himself to swallow his rage down as his eyes locked on the long, lean figure of his brother, Sam, hunched over the hood of the car. His long hair was tied back (for once) in a knot on the crown of his head to prevent it from spilling over his eyes. He wore a white painters mask over the lower half of his face which muffled his voice as he whispered the words of the spell. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked. A delicate looking calligraphy brush was lightly held in his long, elegant fingers as he applied the script. The sight would have been quite beautiful and almost mesmerizing if it weren’t for the fact that Sam was PAINTING ON THE GODDAMN CAR!

“What. In the ever loving hell are you doing?” Dean growled when he finally found his voice.

Sam only held up a finger in reply as he continued muttering the spell. Dean’s already thin patience snapped as he strode forward and made to snatch the brush from Sam’s hand. Sam shifted his large frame to block Dean’s attempted theft of the item. Dean tried again, causing Sam to throw down the brush into a copper bowl of the “paint” from which the evil smell was emanating. Frustrated, Sam yanked the mask from his face. 

“Would you just chill? I’m just updating the wards. You won’t see anything when I’ve finished!” 

“Not see it? How could I not see it? I couldn’t un-see it if I wanted to. It’s fucking sparkling pink!” Dean yelled.

“Pokeberry juice and mica are the base in the spell.” Sam explained 

“Wash it off.”

“No”

“Sam…” Dean warned.  
“Have you even looked at the FBI most wanted list? We’re still in the top fifty thanks to the stunt the Leviathans pulled last year. Every cop in the nation has an APB our very rare, very noticeable car.”

“And putting hot pink sigils on my car will make us blend in better because..?”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, “your eyes are supposed to see it, but your brain won’t register the information. All people will notice is a car shaped thing, but nothing specific to stick around in their memories. That’s how the spell works. You and I can only truly see the car because we’ve been riding around in it for our whole lives. Jesus, how else do you think we’ve avoided being pulled over, cuz it sure as shit isn’t for your mad driving skills.” Sam sassed.

“My driving is just fine and we’ve never had to doll the car up to avoid cops before.” 

“You do a minimum of 20 over the speed limit, not matter what it is.” Sam shot back. “And you can die and come back only so many times before the feds stop falling for it.”

“Don’t care. Wash it off.” Dean crossed his arms in finality and leaned forward into Sam’s space “You’re fucking around with magic on MY CAR and turning it into something only a seven year old pony princess would drive!”

Sam also leaned (or more accurately, loomed due to his height) further into Dean’s space. “It’s been there for months and you’ve never seen it. Only I see it, because I put the spell there. It’s necessary. It keeps us from being noticed and going to prison. I think you can put up with a little sparkle paint that much. Unless you want to spend all your time dodging the feds, that is.”

Dean gritted his teeth and rubbed at his temples. “Ok, fuck it. Finish it. Just don’t mess with the engine or touch the radio.” Dean turned to leave, too tired to fight and reaching his limit of the foul stench from the spell. He was halfway to the exit when Sam called out.

“Oh Dean, bring me your fed threads and jacket. I want to update the spells on those too while the paint’s still fresh.”

Nope, nothing was sacred any more.


End file.
